Janie worked alone from then on, in her cubicle-partitioned corner of the room on the second floor. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the cracked ornamental plaster running around the edge of the ceiling. Sometimes she jerked awake when she started to snore. Light filtered over the half-wall from the large double-hung window, but she couldn't tell whether it was sunny or snowing, morning or afternoon.
For an hour or two each day, Janie pulled up her spreadsheet and entered data points. She'd come to the conclusion that nobody actually ever looked at her work. Ron Essing might have forgotten he'd hired her.
Other than brief chats with Pete and sporadic visits from Roxy, Janie's only social connection was Lacey the dog, who greeted her every night with sad eyes. Lacey was an excellent listener but not much of a conversationalist. Janie missed her dad like missing a limb.
As far as Janie could tell, Pete had refrained from mentioning Janie and Roxy's caving adventure to management. She'd tried to thank him, tried to bring up the subject in one of their private morning chit-chats, but he'd cut her off and sent her away feeling awkward.
Since Roxy's promotion Janie saw her occasionally in the lobby or on the way down in the elevator, looking pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, if a little feverish. But maybe Janie was imagining the feverish part. Envy could skew your perspective.
Once, Janie met Roxy in the parking lot as they both walked into work, and Janie asked about her job.
"I can't really tell you," said Roxy. "It's confidential." She said the word as though it were foreign, and Janie thought she detected a note of, well, triumph in her voice.
That was what she got for asking, thought Janie.
In the lobby, Janie paused at Pete's desk as Roxy skipped into the elevator.
"She thinks she's too good for me now," Janie hissed.
A flicker of something crossed Pete's face. "Don't be an effing idiot."
Janie turned away, chagrinned, and as the elevator doors closed, she thought she heard Pete muttering curses.
Chapter 19
"Pull over here," said Margaret.
The pickup rolled to a stop at a wide spot in the road with a panorama of mountain peaks. Puffs of cloud lay in rows across the sky.
"Wow." Ever the artist, Gary soaked it in. Calloused fingers rested on the steering wheel. The hint of a smile peeked from under his silver moustache.
"Yes, yes, it's beautiful, but you have work to do."
He lingered a moment longer, then climbed out of the truck.
Margaret admired his veined forearms and rippling biceps as he hefted two hard plastic cases from the truck bed, and sighed to herself. Too bad she didn't love him.
He handed her a mostly empty nylon gym bag. She made her way up the faint path and he followed, puffing in the high mountain air.
When she stopped, he set down his burden and stretched his back, watching her from under lazy lids.
She noted that the rocks had been moved. So someone had been through her secret cave entrance. Kids, probably. You couldn't keep them out of anything.
She outlined with her finger where the trap door hinged out of the grate. "I need you to weld this shut so that it can't be used again."
"Simple enough," he said, and set to work.
She also liked that he didn't talk too much. It was restful.
Sparks flew. She sat on a boulder and said to his back, "Why are you always so agreeable? You should tell me to go to hell. All I do is use you."
"Works both ways," he said, without turning.
She knew he was bluffing. There was no one else for Gary.
As he worked, she drew in the sweet, familiar scent of the cave. And she reminisced, but not about Gary.
Back in 1978 or so, she'd hired a man to cut open the rusty old bars, install the hidden latch and gate, make it look like it had always been there. She was sure Ron had never noticed. It probably never occurred to him that she'd been in and out of the cave all of this time.
Sure, Ron thought he owned the cave. But he didn't. It owned him. She was the one who could come and go at will, who had discovered all its secrets. Who wasn't afraid of it.
She'd toyed with the idea of stairs or a ladder down the shaft to the cave's beating heart, the Chamber of Wonders where Joe had been lost to the world. Ron would probably have never known. But then the shaft had filled with water one spring and never drained, and Margaret took that as a sign: a sign that maybe Ron was right, that maybe human beings weren't meant to get that close to the infinite. Maybe it was too much to bear.
Still, she'd gotten close enough to satisfy her yearning by climbing down once every month or so, breathing the heavenly air and just being present for awhile. She could feel Joe's broken spirit lingering there, waiting for his body to die, so that he could continue, whole, into the world beyond.
Every year, the hike up the mountainside and the climb into the cave felt more challenging, more dangerous. She'd started to worry about breaking a hip, dying alone. Old lady concerns. Margaret sighed. She hadn't been back for several years now.
She watched the weather move in, the clouds join and break apart.
Shielding her view with his body, Gary unzipped the gym bag and brought something out, then continued welding.
When he finished, he flipped up his face shield and got carefully to his feet, massaging his knees.
She leaned over to inspect his work. "You couldn't resist," she sighed. He'd added his own signature: A steel flower bloomed out of the grate. Curly chrome petals, rusted nail stamens. The kind of flower that might exist on another planet: beautiful but dangerous.
"For you," he said. "My steely little beauty."
Chapter 20
Andrea perched on the edge of a vinyl club chair, knees together, and leaned in to speak to the client. He was facing the warmth of the fire. Behind him, a view of snow-dusted mountain ridges filled the streaked windows.
He felt for the envelope of cash in his breast pocket, then turned the nervous gesture into a tug at his tie.
"Show me your question, Mr. Wechter."
With two fingers, he slipped a folded sheet of yellow legal paper from another pocket.
Andrea moved his coffee to the side then spread out the paper on the coffee table, read over the single sentence.
She spent ten minutes with him fine-tuning his question, asking for details, suggesting more specific phrasing.
When she was satisfied, she waited.
"Oh!" he exclaimed at last. "I suppose you'll want this!" He drew out the envelope. She scooped it up with the marked-up sheet of legal paper. It was $10,000 in cash.
She left him in the shabby ballroom and took the elevator back to her office. There, she handed the paper to Roxy, who trotted off downstairs.
She watched on camera as Don, the replacement Oracle, prepared himself, as Roxy and Don entered the air seal, as Roxy perched on a stool, inhaling deeply. Don let himself into the cavern. Andrea pressed "record" on the console at her desk.
He held the crumpled paper in his fist. At first he looked anxious, standing there, like his bus was late.
Then, there was a shift.
"To go under what is under and over what is overhead In between things with no spaces What's here is there and vice-versa Through the solid Jump back in time Be in two places at once High is low Young is old What is here is not here, or is something else (as it surely is for someone else), but that someone else is you as well The in-between The not-one-nor-the-other Inside out The impossibly possible. All that has never happened. Where change changes nothing because all potentials are already there."
He said all of this in one breath, squeaked out the last word, and collapsed to the ground, heaving.
Oh, shit. She was going to have to give him a few days off.
Andrea dove for the intercom. "Roxy, go get him."
On screen, the air seal opened. The young girl bounded in, coaxed the Oracle into a standing position and led him out on her arm. It didn't escape A
ndrea that Roxy lingered a moment before heaving the airlock closed, the way Andrea sometimes paused to drink in a sunset.
Andrea glanced at the clock at the bottom of her computer screen, sighed, and played back Don's speech. It was okay, but it didn't address the client's question, which was about his wife's cancer.
It was important to give him his money's worth, so Andrea tacked one final sentence onto the end as she transcribed it: "Health and sickness are a matter of perspective."
When Andrea stepped back into the ballroom with a transcript of the oracle written out in calligraphy on thick cotton-bond paper, she found Mr. Wechter chatting with Janie. They looked a little too cozy there, huddled in front of the fire.
Janie was warming her backside. Mr. Wechter was laughing. Andrea distinctly heard Janie say, "I think they're crazy, but they hired me, so I can't really complain."
Janie glimpsed Andrea too late, murmured something about getting back to work and scurried away.
Mr. Wechter shifted uncomfortably and reached for the transcript Andrea held out to him.
"I was telling the girl about my agency. She says she wants to get into advertising," he said, almost by way of apology.
"You'd be doing me a favor if you took her off my hands," said Andrea.
The smile slipped from his face. "Well, let's see what you've got for me."
After lingering in the hall just long enough to overhear, Janie paced in her cubicle, grimacing and thumping herself on the forehead until she heard Andrea escort Mr. Wechter out. Why couldn't Janie keep her mouth shut? She should know by now to never, ever give too much information. That was, like, the number one rule in advertising according to George. Wechter Worldwide Branding would never hire her now, and Andrea would probably fire her. Janie braced for the blowback.
Sure enough, Andrea showed up in Janie's cubicle only a few minutes later. Janie didn't try to pretend she'd been working.
Andrea trembled with rage. She jabbed a finger at Janie. "You don't know anything about this business, and I don't appreciate your smart-ass remarks."
"I'm sorry," Janie said, as fast as she could. She could feel her face flaming.
Before Janie could get down on her knees, Andrea whirled and marched out. Apparently, Janie had been adequately debased.
Janie dedicated her afternoon to thinking of clever responses to Andrea's harangue. Things like, "When I'm your age, I'm not going to be working for my dad," and "Did you realize you have no lips?"
Chapter 21
A wave of whispers passed through Long Shot, Inc.
Janie didn't hear it from Pete as she scurried into work 45 minutes late the next day. She caught the news from Roxy, who made a special trip up to visit Janie in her lonely cubicle. Roxy bounced around talking a mile a minute: OSHA had arrived for a surprise inspection. A work safety complaint had been filed by an anonymous person. The compliance officers had confiscated a bunch of employee files. They had met privately with several employees, held a conference with Ron Essing, and were at that moment touring the basement in gas masks with a case full of gauges and gizmos.
"Gas masks?"
"That's what I heard."
According to Roxy, there were several rumors about the inspection. One was that the company would be shut down. Janie's chest tightened at the thought. Another rumor was that lead from mining waste had contaminated the building's water system.
"By the way," said Roxy, "I've been going through Mel's stuff--you know, the papers from your desk?"
"Mm-hm." Janie was still thinking about OSHA.
"And I found some stuff that will blow your mind. Seriously, big stuff."
Here she goes again, thought Janie. If Janie asked about it, Roxy would just tell her it was "Confidential" or something.
"That's nice," Janie said, with a bland smile.
"Seriously. Like, did you know that if you go into this certain chamber at just the right time, it will take you away to, I don’t know, like, another dimension--"
“You sound like my Aunt M.”
"--where you can see through the illusion of material existence."
"Sounds awesome."
"Just because you’ve never experienced oneness doesn't mean you have to be sarcastic."
As Roxy left, Janie muttered, "Yes, you're very special. I'm super impressed."
On her way home ten minutes early (she'd realized that nobody really cared when she came or went), Janie stopped at Pete's desk to ask him about the OSHA inspection rumors. Every muscle in his body tensed. A vein stood out on his forehead.
Janie drew back. "I just thought you might know."
"Why would I know? I don't effing know anything," he barked.
And that was the end of that conversation.
Chapter 22
One moment she saw the sheen of ice. The next moment, the Taurus was buried nose-first in broken trees by the creek.
Janie had been driving home down the canyon, just like any other night. It was a route she'd gotten to know well. She knew the sharp corners, the places where deer crossed, the spots where she could squeeze past slow-moving cars. But it had snowed that day, lazy specks drifting out of the sky, and Janie hadn't thought to watch for ice. After all, it was only October. Winter was months away, right?
She cursed the weather, extricated herself from the Taurus, tried to slam the door in fury, but it just bounced open again. Cars whooshed past, invisible on the road above. None of them stopped.
Huffing, she climbed the embankment. A car approached and she tried to flag it down. It slowed just enough to make the curve, and the driver gave her a dirty look as he sped into the straightaway.
Rigid with rage at the road, at the weather, at that other dammed driver, but mostly at herself (Could she not do anything right?), Janie pulled her cell phone from her purse. No bars. She hadn't been expecting cell reception here, but it would have been nice.
Sighing, she dropped it back in, then got her bearings. On the other side of the road was a mailbox on a post and a rough dirt driveway. She would ask to use their phone.
Tufts of withered grass held a coating of frost. Lodgepole pines crowded the driveway. Pine needles crunched under foot. Up ahead, she saw a gleam of metal and a splash of aqua blue. She must be nearing the house, which was good because she wasn't feeling too well. She had the instinct that if she stopped, she wouldn't be able to start again, so she put her head down and counted footsteps to keep her going. She'd find out what the crash had done to her once she got some help.
Glancing up, she saw a shiny aqua and silver trailer, circa 1950, perched on cinder blocks in a rough clearing. Strewn about were a dismantled pickup, a stack of wood pallets, odds and ends. The shed was half finished. Tar-paper hung off it in shreds. All was silent.
What if the homeowners weren't there? She'd break in, she decided. This was no time for ethics.
And once she got to the telephone, who would she call? That was the kicker. Dad wasn't around any more, and her good friend Emma was off at college in Massachusetts, partying with frat boys.
Under a corrugated fiberglass overhang, Janie hammered on the aluminum door. The trailer rocked and squeaked as someone approached. The door burst open.
And there stood Pete, gut hanging over his boxer shorts, with a rifle under his arm.
His face covered all the gamut of emotions, then settled on puzzled.
Janie tried to smile.
"What the...effing...?" he said at last. He scanned the clearing behind her, looked her over, then turned to his own living room. The gun bobbed along with him.
Janie smelled cigarette smoke and liquor.
"I crashed my car," she said.
"How did you know I live here?"
"I didn't."
He turned away and disappeared from view. "You might as well come in," he said.
As she stepped into the tiny living room, she saw him stash a Chivas bottle in the cupboard above the sink.
Covering the floor was a checkerboard of
stained rugs. Everything in the trailer was in miniature: the tiny sink, the bulbous fridge, the two-burner stove, the built-in knotty pine bookshelves. Pete seemed to hunch so he wouldn't hit his head. Even the curtains were tiny, like flowered halter tops.
"Can I use your bathroom?"
He motioned her into a cubby beyond the kitchen with a vinyl accordion door that refused to latch. Once she collapsed onto the commode, she took in the miniature pink bathtub and matching sink. It smelled faintly of mice and methane. When she flushed, the water trickled away.
Back in the kitchen, she hugged herself and rocked from foot to foot while he sucked down a Marlboro in two breaths, then took a long swallow, eyes closed, from his Budweiser. He had put on jeans.
The way their conversation had ended earlier that day, Janie didn't know where they stood. Were they still friends?
"I--uh--just need to use your phone, and I'll get out of your hair as soon as I can."
"You came here for a phone?" He spoke to a spot above her head.
"To call a tow-truck." She could talk the driver into giving her a ride home.
"Why would I have a phone?"
Most people did. He didn't seem to realize that. Or he was just trying to make things harder on her. He'd decided he hated her for some reason, and didn't want to help her out. Well, it was either let her use the phone or she'd stay all night.
"Look, asshole, I'm sorry I intruded on your peaceful evening, but I didn't have any choice, and my back hurts too much to walk into town." That was no lie. She'd barely been able to get up off the commode. "So either you help me out or you're stuck with me."
"I'll give you a ride home, okay? Just let me rest a bit. I wasn't planning on driving tonight." He took one last swig of beer, got up and moved a case of motor oil off a kitchen chair so she could sit down. Then he started making coffee.
"How'd you know we were in the cavern the other day?" she asked. "The alarm company couldn't call you if you don't have a phone."
He shrugged, interrupted the flow of coffee to pour himself a cup.
"Do you work on Saturdays?"
"You can either stop asking questions or you can effing walk home."
It was pitch dark when Pete pulled his Explorer around and gave Janie a boost into the front seat. Janie wondered whether two cups of coffee was enough, because his driving seemed self-consciously cautious. On the other hand, she was in no position to complain, since he was doing her a favor and wasn't making any mistakes. He drove slowly down the driveway, turned carefully out into the road and parked on the shoulder where she indicated.
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